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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25465627">Notes</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory'>thinkatory</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Slings &amp; Arrows</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bickering, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Writing on Skin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:54:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,744</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25465627</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of their Hamlet, Geoffrey sleeps with Oliver; or, what happens when you fall in love with someone you don't like.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geoffrey Tennant/Oliver Welles</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Notes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts">reine_des_corbeaux</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I love this show so much, and there is such a shocking dearth of just Geoffrey/Oliver out there that I felt the need to chuck even this much at the tag. It's a bit more serious than canon, but then, I am catching them at the most dramatic part of their lives, so I hope that's justifiable.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geoffrey buries his face in Oliver's shoulder as he comes, and presses his eyes shut as reality threatens to crash over him like a wave.</p><p><i>Nope,</i> he just manages not to say out loud. <i>Not a chance, not doing this.</i></p><p>Oliver pulls out of him and releases Geoffrey's now softening cock; he idly swipes Geoffrey's come away with a nearby sock, an almost matter-of-fact gesture, and it's such a plain, practical moment that Geoffrey can't deny this isn't some sort of bizarre, hyper-realistic fantasy. <i>NOPE. NOT A CHANCE.</i> Maybe if he keeps his mouth shut and just goes to sleep, it'll be like none of this ever happened.</p><p>"Oh, Geoffrey." Oliver's half-despairing; Geoffrey doesn't open his eyes. "Don't fuss."</p><p>"I'm not fussing, I'm sleeping," Geoffrey mutters. "Get some sleep."</p><p>"Geoffrey." Oliver's tone is different now. Geoffrey <i>can't</i> open his eyes; he can't see the look on Oliver's face. "I want to talk."</p><p>"It's two AM, can't this wait?" Geoffrey says pointedly.</p><p>"It's two AM and we just had sex." Geoffrey is clearly testing his patience. "I want to talk. Or, let's be honest, you'll completely ignore that this happened and we'll both just have to live with it inside our heads, won't we?"</p><p>"What do you want," Geoffrey says finally, level.</p><p>Oliver seems to compose himself in the pause. "Look at me."</p><p>Geoffrey is silent, still, for a moment, then finally opens his eyes and looks into Oliver's face. Something inside of him aches. "So?" he prompts Oliver.</p><p>"I love you," Oliver says, right to his face, blunt as ever, but never like this. "In every possible way, Geoffrey. I do."</p><p>He stares, blank, dumb, frozen. Is there anything he can say that can match something like that? He's such an emotionally stunted flailing mess that he's barely been able to manage <i>Ellen</i> saying she loves him and she's not <i>Oliver</i> for fuck's sake and he has to stomp out all thoughts of Ellen, refocusing. Besides all this everything is fantastic, so, focus on that. Hamlet has to be everything to him right now, Hamlet is the utter height of his soul, an apex, a zenith.</p><p>"You're just high on the show," comes out of Geoffrey's mouth, and he instantly regrets it from the look it gets from Oliver. He doubles down, stubborn. "I'm serious. This is, this is all show shit."</p><p>"Do you think I'm so simple as to fall for a showmance?" Oliver is nothing short of astounded. "With <i>you</i>?"</p><p>"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Geoffrey demands, a little offended.</p><p>"I just fucked one of the most important people in my entire company," Oliver says, half-manic, half-demanding, "one of the most talented actors I have ever seen in my life, <i>Geoffrey</i>, and you're saying it was just an impulse?"</p><p>That's totally different. "Oliver," he warns.</p><p>"I know you think you're very, very straight, for one thing," Oliver goes on, acidly. "I also know that you can only handle positive emotion when you're very, very drunk, or everything is a blur of overthinking and stress to you. Well, we're <i>not</i> drunk, and I <i>demand</i> to know what you're thinking. I've told you what I'm thinking. It's your turn."</p><p>They stare at each other, Geoffrey's mouth forming a thin line until he finally answers. "Are you done monologuing? I didn't want to cut you off."</p><p>Oliver throws up his hands. "You're incorrigible."</p><p>"See," Geoffrey says, "I'm not as lovable as you think."</p><p>"Stop." While it's sharp, it's pained. "I am doing my <i>level best</i> to be honest with you, and you're full of, of pithy comments and self-deprecation. This is not a joke to me, and it shouldn't be to you."</p><p>Ellen pops to mind again. "I'm not laughing." He presses a hand to his face, self-loathing coalescing in his mind like storm clouds, building pressure as they go.</p><p>Oliver looks at him for a moment, finally breaking the silence between them with, "Did this mean nothing to you?"</p><p>There's a tightness in his chest, a tension in his throat. "Nothing means nothing to me. Thought you knew that much about me."</p><p>"Good god," Oliver complains.</p><p>"You wanted an answer, you got one."</p><p>"That is not an answer, Geoffrey!"</p><p>The demands are too much, now, and he snaps. "What do you want from me?"</p><p>"I want the truth!"</p><p>Geoffrey realizes what's in Oliver's face, his tone, his posture on the bed, now: plain, unbridled panic. <i>God,</i> he realizes, <i>I'm such an asshole. I ruin everything I touch.</i> He stares at Oliver, guilt crushing his heart, then says, "I think you already know."</p><p>Oliver's expression just barely changes, less petulant, more concerned. "I want to hear it," he says, softer now.</p><p>Geoffrey presses his eyes shut. "We have a show tomorrow. I need to sleep."</p><p>"Geoffrey." It's barely audible now. "Please."</p><p>He's going to be sick. "I have to go," he bursts out with, and scrambles out of bed to get dressed. He's expecting some kind of outburst from Oliver, some demand to stay, some begging, but there's nothing. Oliver rests back, averts his gaze, and doesn't watch Geoffrey go.</p><p>Geoffrey sleeps on the couch at home, restless, with dreams of being put to trial for his sins.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <i>I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all here to this devil, to deliver you.</i>
</p><p>It's not the kind of note a director usually gives an actor. Geoffrey silently folds it and places it under a makeup container on his dressing room table. He props up his elbows and puts his face in his hands. It's everything he can do to fend off this sea change he's caused by kissing Oliver just once, and unlocking all that Oliver wanted from him for however long.</p><p>"Places in five!"</p><p>Shit. He pulls in breaths as best he can, but the note is still there, and Oliver's words still in his head. Oliver has never been one for romantic gestures, not that Geoffrey's known of, flirtations and messy makeout sessions with various men of various ages, sure, but never notes of devotion and care. It doesn't seem like him. But Geoffrey knows Oliver's handwriting.</p><p>Has he ever inspired <i>devotion</i> in anyone? Interest, maybe. Fondness and laughter, from Ellen. He's charismatic, he knows that, he's drawn people into his circle – and kept them at arm's length, like anyone with a fucked-up childhood would do – but this, this is something new. These aren't desperate notes of longing from a Hamlet to an Ophelia. This is something more plain, more direct.</p><p>Geoffrey knows Oliver is telling the truth, and that's the second worst thing. The worst thing is the words that are stuck in his throat and behind a wall in his mind.</p><p>The door of his dressing room opens, and Ellen pops her head in. "Ready?" she prompts him.</p><p>"Yeah, yeah," Geoffrey says instantly, and pushes himself to his feet. He flashes a smile. "Let's do this."</p>
<hr/><p>Hamlet is too much, now. Hamlet is a creature of emotion with racing, erratic thoughts, who destroys all the people who care for him in a blind attempt to fulfill a duty to his father. <i>Hamlet is you, Geoffrey.</i> He's destroyed everything. He looks upon Claudius praying.</p><p>Maybe Claudius deserved to be put out of his misery where he knelt. Maybe Hamlet should have just killed them all, so they wouldn't have to suffer through all the games and mindfuck. Maybe Hamlet is a sociopath who wanted to play God.</p><p>Hell of a time to mentally rewrite a character. No, he knows better, he knows this play inside and out, but he fears, he <i>fears</i>, he breaks the hearts of the people from the first row to the last in a desperate fury, until the grief of it all overwhelms him.</p><p>The world is a fishbowl all at once, his vision bubbled. He can't speak, though the others are looking at him. He can't move.</p><p>There's nowhere to go but Hell. He jumps.</p><p>He runs.</p>
<hr/><p>Geoffrey's got his face buried in the table in what passes as a combined sitting and dining room in the mental hospital when Oliver sits across from him. He barely looks up. "What do you want," he mutters.</p><p>Oliver's face is drawn. "I want you to tell me what happened."</p><p>"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." Genuinely, a lot of it is a blur, but this is mostly a lie.</p><p>"Is this because of what I said?"</p><p>He's never heard Oliver this serious, this hesitant. He glances up a bit more, and he doesn't know what to say to that expression, the desperate terror in Oliver's face that begs to know if he's ruined Geoffrey's life. If only it were so simple.</p><p>"Why did you write me that note?" Geoffrey manages, past the nerves.</p><p>Oliver exhales. "I... I wanted you to know. I wanted to say that even though you aren't... <i>interested</i>, that I still care for you." He clears his throat. "This isn't easy for me, you know."</p><p>Geoffrey laughs shortly. "Oh, not easy for you."</p><p>"So you do blame me." Oliver's on the defensive now.</p><p>"I never said I blamed you for anything," Geoffrey says, peevish. "I was pointing out you're still a free man and I'm in a <i>nuthouse</i>."</p><p>"This is where you need to be." Oliver's gaze is still tight on Geoffrey's face. "I just wanted to know what happened to cause all this." There's a terrible heavy silence as he pauses, apparently hoping for Geoffrey to say something and getting nothing, then he goes on, "Are you going to tell me?"</p><p>It's overdramatic, it's stupid, but Geoffrey pictures literally choking on the words that refuse to leave his mouth and throat, death by emotional repression. <i>Thanks, Dad.</i> "You already know," he says.</p><p>Oliver releases an exaggerated sigh. "Geoffrey, I am not asking much of you right now."</p><p>"Oh, right," Geoffrey snipes in a sharp whisper. "Demanding a rejection or a love declaration from a man who at least <i>had</i> a girlfriend before he got put under psychiatric lock and key, that's absolutely nothing."</p><p>"That's not – " Oliver rakes his fingers into his hair and gestures abruptly. "Do you <i>have</i> anything to tell me?"</p><p>Suddenly his eyes are burning. Geoffrey panics, and presses his face into his hands. "What do you want from me?" he says through his fingers.</p><p>"I want the truth." Oliver's voice is gentler than Geoffrey's ever heard it.</p><p>"I ruined everything," Geoffrey snaps out, not looking up. "I'm a terrible fucking human. Is that what you want to hear? Great. You can go now." Oliver isn't moving, and Geoffrey can feel his gaze. This is worse than if he would actually leave. "Oliver! Jesus Christ," he complains.</p><p>"You didn't ruin anything," Oliver says, steady. "You were honest with yourself. With me."</p><p>"What are you <i>talking</i> about," Geoffrey retorts; he's shaky now, and doesn't dare look at Oliver now, genuinely not sure what will happen if he looks him in the face now.</p><p>"A kiss is a choice." Oliver exhales. "From lust, from love, from something more confused than love, any or all of that. You made a choice. One you might regret. And if you do, that's, that's fine. But you were honest with yourself in that moment, and Geoffrey, I know how difficult that is for you."</p><p>"I don't like when you psychoanalyze me," Geoffrey grumbles.</p><p>"Do you regret it?" Oliver persists. "Is that what happened?"</p><p>"Of course this is all about you." Geoffrey's all at once irritated. "About whether or not someone wants you. It can't possibly be about me, it has to be about whether or not someone wanted to fuck you. You're so <i>predictable</i>."</p><p>Oliver looks wounded when Geoffrey meets his gaze. "Do you really think that's all this is?"</p><p>"I think it's a definite motivator." Geoffrey is more comfortable with this kind of anger. "Like I said, you can go if all you wanted was some kind of confession, you got what you wanted."</p><p>Oliver releases a weary sigh. "I see," he says, in plain surrender. "It was a mistake."</p><p>Whiplash again; tears burn through his eyes and down his face, and he could just about die. He wipes his face and shoves his chair back. "Tell Ellen she can come whenever she wants." Everything hurts. "Bring something to read next time."</p><p>Oliver looks frozen where he sits. "Now you know what it's like to be inside of a problem play," he says, with a wry smile. "Riddled with implications that would make people terribly upset, with people making terrible decisions based on strong feelings that seem to resolve so easily, because we can excuse some human wreckage for the sake of a comedic end."</p><p>"Of course you purposely quoted Merchant." Geoffrey's still crying, but steadfastly refusing to acknowledge it. "Of course you had some great symbolic purpose. How long have you been rehearsing – "</p><p>Geoffrey rubs his sleeve over his eyes, and in the intervening time Oliver is on his feet again and moves in front of him. Geoffrey goes still as Oliver cups his face in his hands, with a sad, small smile on his face. "Ellen won't hate you," Oliver says softly.</p><p>"Ellen's hated me for less than this," Geoffrey whispers, his heart in his throat.</p><p>"She pretends." Oliver releases a slow breath. "Tell me not to and I won't."</p><p>God, tears are still streaking down his face. Maybe he belongs in this place. Geoffrey says nothing, and Oliver presses a firm kiss to his mouth, his breath careful and caught in his chest against Geoffrey's as he pulls away.</p><p>"I need to figure the crazy out," Geoffrey manages. "Then maybe I can figure you out."</p><p>"I'm not very complicated," Oliver offers, with some slight levity.</p><p>"Isn't that the truth." Geoffrey can still feel Oliver's breaths against his chest. "Did you get what you came here for?" he tries deadpanning.</p><p>"I think so." Oliver gently withdraws. "I'll be back. Soon. Not too soon, but soon enough." He moves away just far enough to snatch some tissues from a box and offer them to Geoffrey silently; when Geoffrey accepts them, he smiles faintly. "I'll send Ellen to you."</p><p>Oh god. "Yeah." Geoffrey clears his throat, and wipes his face.</p><p>Oliver touches his shoulder, gives it a gentle squeeze, and goes, leaving Geoffrey alone and pink-cheeked from crying. He yanks the chair back out and sits down, face buried in his hands again.</p><p>Whether or not more questions have been answered or raised is still up in the air.</p>
<hr/><p>"I get it." Ellen's eyes aren't as full of hurt as Geoffrey expected. "So... it's over?"</p><p>"I don't know," Geoffrey confesses. "I love you."</p><p>"But you love him." Ellen watches him. "Isn't that what you're saying?"</p><p>"I don't know," he repeats. "He's a prick, Ellen. Sometimes he's the most irritating person I've ever fucking met." He barely pauses. "Well, always, really."</p><p>"You have a bad habit of falling in love with terrible people," Ellen tries joking, and gently touches his hand. "I, I, I want you to be happy, Geoffrey."</p><p>"I can't stand the idea of hurting you," rushes out of Geoffrey's mouth, and he wishes he could cram the words back into his mouth. "Shit."</p><p>"Maybe he'll share you sometimes," she whispers, her smile tiny and sad. "Wouldn't that be fun?"</p><p>"God, it's bad enough managing both of you outside of bed," Geoffrey says without missing a beat.</p><p>Ellen laughs shortly. "Fine, he can lend you out."</p><p>"As long as he doesn't give notes," Geoffrey says, "I could be convinced."</p><p>She smiles, and it's everything he can do to not collapse from grief and relief all at once.</p>
<hr/><p>"There's such a thing as too much stage blood, Oliver," Geoffrey complains, pacing, in the green room.</p><p>"Really," Oliver says, flippant, "you're being squeamish."</p><p>"I'm not being squeamish, I'm saying costumes is going to kill you if you go through that many blood packs." Geoffrey plucks at his red-stained shirt. "<i>Look</i> at this."</p><p>"It's <i>Titus</i>," Oliver says patiently. "If you don't have blood flying off the stage into the seats like they've strapped themselves into Disney's Splash Mountain, you'll hear it in the reviews. 'The action in Welles's Titus Andronicus is as bloodless as the effects.'"</p><p>"I'm being practical," Geoffrey tries.</p><p>"You just don't want red stains on your chest." Oliver's smile is faint. "Don't worry. I'm the only one who's going to see."</p><p>Geoffrey turns away, swiping his hands over his face, embarrassed and frustrated all at once. "You're deflecting," he says, without turning around. "Because you know I'm right."</p><p>"Are you a director now?" Oliver asks mildly.</p><p>"Oliver," Geoffrey warns. "Come on."</p><p>"I'm serious." He actually seems to be. "Are you a director now?"</p><p>Geoffrey lets a pause sit as he tries to puzzle this one out, and turns back around. "Because I questioned your directorial choice to drown me in chemicals?" he checks.</p><p>"You've been giving me notes since we started this show," Oliver says. "<i>You've</i> been giving <i>me</i> notes."</p><p>Geoffrey releases a sound that's half-laugh, half-scoff. "I have not."</p><p>"Yes you have." Oliver sounds almost cheerful. "You want a show next season?"</p><p>"<i>What</i>?" Geoffrey demands.</p><p>"They told me not to offer one to you," Oliver says, "but in truth they don't have as much say as they'd like as long as I follow their silly demands in most things."</p><p>"The board." New Burbage had barely wanted him back as an actor – bad press – but Oliver had intervened. Now Oliver's intervening again. Geoffrey pulls in a slow breath. "You trust me?"</p><p>"Of course." Oliver makes it sound so obvious.</p><p>"You trust me to direct a play," Geoffrey clarifies.</p><p>"Of <i>course</i>. With my guidance."</p><p>"Oh, please," Geoffrey fires back, weary, "I'm not going to have you looking over my shoulder, that's, that is just – "</p><p>Oliver gestures repeatedly to cut him off. "Yes or no?"</p><p>Geoffrey sinks down next to Oliver, lets out a shaky sigh, and leans slightly against him. "Promise me you'll try not to be unbearable."</p><p>"I'm never unbearable," Oliver says, pithy as anything.</p><p>"That's a no," Geoffrey supposes. Oliver tucks a hand under his chin and draws Geoffrey's face to his, and Geoffrey's will bends as he leans in for a kiss.</p><p>"You want to go home?" Oliver murmurs after, insinuating.</p><p>"Yeah," Geoffrey says, soft, wanting. "Unless you're good with a dressing room."</p><p>"Mm, I could be convinced."</p><p>Geoffrey draws Oliver to his feet and casually guides him through backstage until they make it to his dressing room and lock the door behind themselves. Oliver's always the more aggressive between the two of them, and peels off Geoffrey's stained shirt first to press kiss after kiss along his neck and shoulder. It's more work to get Oliver undressed, suit and tie, and he's at least already halfway to hard against Oliver with Oliver still half-dressed.</p><p>"Wait a minute," Geoffrey murmurs against Oliver's mouth.</p><p>"Oh, what," Oliver says, midway between complaining and despairing.</p><p>"Shut up," Geoffrey suggests. "Get your undershirt off."</p><p>Oliver shrugs and gets to it, and Geoffrey snatches up a pen before turning back to Oliver, who's attempting to look casual and normal with the contrariness of every indication of desperate hunger for him. Geoffrey absorbs that with the usual disbelief, then leans Oliver back, pinning him just enough so he can begin.</p><p>"Geoffrey," Oliver says, soft, but Geoffrey ignores him, pressing the pen just hard enough into the skin of Oliver's chest to leave the words there for a long enough time for Oliver to be able to look on them and think, beginning with as pretty a <i>29</i> as he can make.</p><p>
  <i>Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,</i><br/>
<i>Haply I think on thee, and then my state,</i><br/>
<i>(Like to the lark at break of day arising</i><br/>
<i>From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven’s gate;</i><br/>
<i>For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings</i><br/>
<i>That then I scorn to change my state with kings.</i>
</p><p>Oliver's breaths sharpen as Geoffrey's fingers linger on his skin, his gaze steady on his work, and once he's done he drops the pen and hesitates to look into Oliver's face. Oliver shakes his head silently, eyes full of overwhelmed emotion, and Geoffrey kisses him as he wraps his hand around Oliver's cock to work him intently.</p><p>Geoffrey <i>aches</i>. It's a relief when Oliver finally moves him onto his back and fingers him just enough to draw that perfect relaxed tension through him; Geoffrey doesn't even care how quick and dirty the spit Oliver works over his hand is, because Oliver is on top of him and inside him within a minute and it's almost too much. He drops his head back for a moment as Oliver fucks him with firm but not harsh strokes, then Oliver moves his fingers from Geoffrey's hips to behind his head to draw him into a series of insistent kisses. Oliver's hand moves between them, beginning to jerk Geoffrey's cock, and he shudders out a wonderful sound.</p><p>It doesn't take long for either of them, honestly, and that's fine. Aftershocks ripple through Geoffrey anyway, and he runs his fingers over Oliver's skin, thoughtful, wistful as he always is, until he reaches the snippet of the sonnet marked into Oliver's chest. Oliver's gaze has followed Geoffrey's fingertips, and they both look back at each other after a moment.</p><p>"I love you," Geoffrey says, at last, his throat still aching with the effort of pushing those words out, despite his every reservation over the last year.</p><p>"You do," Oliver murmurs, a terrible answer, and Geoffrey rolls his eyes just before Oliver kisses him again. "I love you too, Geoffrey," he adds, fondly, after, and withdraws. "Now, get dressed. We should eat."</p><p>"Right." Geoffrey sighs, but watches Oliver dress instead, covering the penstrokes of Geoffrey's handwriting; the image of Oliver's handwriting on that note is still etched into his brain. He shakes his head as Oliver looks back at him, quizzical, and starts to pull on his clothes. "You want Chinese?" he suggests.</p><p>"I hate their orange sauce," Oliver complains, grimacing as he does up his tie.</p><p>"It's <i>fine</i>," Geoffrey says, weary. "You have the worst palate I've ever seen."</p><p>"Oh, suddenly you're an arbiter of taste?" Oliver retorts.</p><p>"You're right," Geoffrey says without missing a beat, and offers the slightest smirk. "I have terrible taste."</p><p>Oliver rolls his eyes, still fond, and gestures. "Not Chinese," he says, to the point, as he opens the door to the dressing room.</p><p>"Fine. Indian?"</p><p>"I <i>suppose</i>."</p>
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